Hey, let's talk about my chesteses.

So far this mom thing is really bizarre for me. Obviously nothing happened as planned or expected, so I'm kind of swimming in the deep end with regard to exactly how I'm supposed to be feeling or acting. Mostly I just give myself permission to feel however I happen to because what's right or wrong in this situation?

Now that I'm out of the hospital and back home I'm spending most of my time pumping breast milk, preparing to pump breast milk or figuring out when to next pump breast milk. I HATE pumping breast milk. Really, really do. It's so detached and impersonal to sit there attached by the boobs to a machine for twenty minutes at a time and stare into space while waiting for it to end. The type of breast pump the hospital sends you home with is called a double electric, meaning you pump both boobs at once with great, electricity-fueled force. This is nice and efficient, yes, but also extremely limiting as you have to hold the contraption in place with your hands. So I sit there, like a bored dairy cow, and stare around while enduring the least sexy form of nipple torture ever.

The cats are intrigued, of course. Mong sits a small distance away and just watches kind of askance, not really approving of the process. Shelley, unsurprisingly, is much more scientifically interested in the whole thing and wants to get right in my lap and watch up close. Because my range of movement is extremely limited I am reduced to doing a kind of chicken wing flap with my occupied arms to try to dissuade him, or draw one knee up to make my lap less inviting. He is not easily dissuaded and will eventually park himself up against my leg if he can't get in my lap, watching in a very intent and discomfiting manner what is going on with my poor, poor nipples.

Nipples, nipples, nipples. I never really thought I'd end up talking much about one of my MOST PRIVATE body parts in this blog because I wasn't planning to breastfeed. Since Shaughnessy ended up being preemie, though, breast milk is one of the best things for her and I can certainly oblige. It turns out that producing breast milk is a crazy skill I have. It's like, effortless for me. When the lactation consultant came to talk to me in the hospital I was in the middle of pumping and quit early so I could chat with her. She did a total double-take when she saw the amount I'd already pumped and was all, "Is that the volume you usually produce?" I was like, no, I usually get more. She was impressed. My boobs; they are enthusiastic. Which is awesome, because as much as I HAAAAATE to pump it's extremely gratifying to feel like I'm doing something so directly beneficial and mother-like for my daughter.

Even though breast-feeding in itself is also a procedure that limits your movement and takes up time I can only look forward to it as a great improvement as I'll actually be holding my daughter and bonding with her, able to look down at her and into her eyes and interact with her. I won't be hooked up to a happy yellow robot that doesn't want to bite me and pull my hair.